The Dark Roast
Page 19
I pulled a cigarette out and tried hopelessly to light it.
“Here,” he said. “Let me help you with that.”
“Thanks,” I said, once I got it puffing away.
He stepped back to his usual spot and continued to hold his silence. This wasn’t unusual, aside from my current physical state; as often as we talked when out enjoying our evening smokes, we’re just as comfortable sharing a companionable silence. The normalcy of it felt like a warm blanket. The moments stretched on and we stood there, not talking, not thinking, just smoking and being.
The moment was shattered when two drunk Mexican guys stumbled up to us, looking to cause problems.
“Hey, hey you. You give me that cigarette homes,” said the shortest of the two, swaying drunkenly in front of Adam.
“Si, you give him that,” said the other one.
“Sorry,” said Adam. “I just can’t do that. This is mine.” The finality of his tone was not lost on the two drunks. When you stand out here as often as we do, you get pretty good at saying no. Otherwise, you’ll give away half your pack before you’ve smoked one all the way down.
“What esay? You loco? You give me that cigarette,” said the short one, taking a step closer to Adam.
I was in no shape to get into a scuffle, Mr. Briggs had seen to that. But I only needed my crutch to walk, not to stand. I handed it to Adam wordlessly. His eyes never left the short drunk as he took the crutch from me. “I’ll tell you one last time,” he said. “No.” He grabbed the crutch by the end and hefted the rest onto his shoulder like a giant baseball bat. The two Mexicans took a couple of steps back, took in the site of Adam towering above them holding essentially a giant club and decided against their current course of action.
“Okay Bozo, okay. We don’t want your stinking cigarette. You and G.I. Joe better watch out though, you got that Bozo?”
Adam took a threatening step toward them, shaking the crutch and said, “I don’t like threats.”
They ran off stumbling, looking over their shoulders and cursing us in Spanish. Adam handed back my crutch and said, “You get to be G.I. Joe and I’m Bozo?”
“It’s probably because of your hair,” I said.
We stood there for second and then laughed. I laughed for a long time, until there were tears in my eyes. It felt good even though it pain the hell out of my ribs.
“Jason, I want you to know that I’m sorry.”
“I know Adam. It’s okay.” I thought about the picture in my closet. I didn’t know what to think about it anymore. So many things have changed since he took those photos of us.
Interrupting my musings, he said, “I know you said not to take anymore pictures of you, and I haven’t. But I was shooting on the roof today, trying to capture the light escaping between the bats and when I came down, I saw her standing in front of your door.” He handed me a small envelope and continued, “It was the most painful image I’ve seen in a long, long time. I know you to be a good person Jason.”
He knocked the cherry out of his clove cigarette, pocketed the butt and went inside. I opened the envelope and took out the small picture inside. It was a little bigger than a business card. I stared at the image and pulled out a cigarette. Lighting it was difficult without Adam. I took a long pull, inhaled the hot smoke and blew it out. As I did I thought about Rachael and my dad. Neither had ever smoked a single cigarette.
You’d think I never would have picked up the habit. But I started smoking the day after my dad’s funeral. I didn’t care. I did it blatantly in front of my mother a few times, just to see her react. She didn’t. Now I’m fully addicted. I’ve tried to quit a few times, but some stressful event always pulls me back into the comforting embrace of the white sticks of death. Besides, I like smoking. The act of it appeals to my fidgety nature. It’s my go-to boredom-alleviator. It’s always there for me, especially when I’m feeling like this.
The Vicodin is wearing off and the mild euphoria is fading. The image in my hand shows me the long hallway leading to my apartment. Rachael looks small and lonely in the middle of it. Her hair hangs lankly from a ponytail. Her head rests heavily on my door along with the palm of her hand. She is the image of defeat, of loneliness, of need.
I have no picture of the Flower Girl, no image to name her and compare her. I cannot be there for her, the danger is too great. She doesn’t want me to anyway.
Today has been long and hard, filled with people both good and bad. Some have hurt me, while others have shown me kindness and love.
I don’t know what tomorrow holds. Pain, probably, but also maybe joy. People will be at the heart of it though, and I think I’ll get by.
I pull out my phone and place a call. It rings two times, then a soft voice answers uncertainly, “Hello?”
“Hello Rachael.”
About the author
Thomas Uriah Jarboe is from Leonard, MO and San Diego, CA.